


Blood Pancakes

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post NFA, Spike and Buffy in a cosy setting with Dawn doing some cooking. Slight schmoop warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Pancakes

Cold blood cakes, clots, clings to everything it touches, leaves smears on plates, clothes and his chin. Hot blood slips down smoothly, caressing his throat, warming the cockles of the heart that no longer beats.

Hot blood from a microwave doesn’t quite do either. It creates a crust, dark and crisp around the edges, but it’s lumpy in the centre and separates towards the bottom of the mug, little islets floating in the anaemic juices which remain. He’s never explained it, but that’s the main reason he has tried so many additives, from the sharp zing of the burba weed to the thick, porridge consistency of Weetabix that reminds him of a long-dead nanny and the warmth of a nursery fire.

There are some mixtures, though, that even he shudders at. Pancakes are one of them. Black pudding is fine in its way, and Buffy has trailed round all the British food shops in LA to find some for him, so of course he eats it, showing relish and not a hint that the crumbly, dry oatmeal binding makes it difficult for his metabolism to absorb the blood itself. If a metabolism is what he’s got – there isn’t exactly a chapter in Buffy’s Merck Home Health Manual on functioning and disorders of his kind. Watchers might have a guidebook on treating vampires, but they can sod off with that, thank you very much. 

Blood works as a pouring sauce in some circumstances. It works with rare beef, and you could dip those onion things into it. The place that made them is buried under countless tons of rubble, but the concept is sound, he supposes. 

Pancakes, though? They are different. Bloody sacred, actually. He remembers the ritual from his childhood, the one day in the year he was allowed in the kitchen, helping Cook stir the batter, filling the ladle with the thick, creamy liquid, watching it flow across the base of the pan and form a crispy lacework around the edges, then standing back, fist in his mouth to stem the squeals of excitement as the whole confection was tossed and spun lazily towards the ceiling before landing, miraculously, face down in the place it came from. Then the magic of the dry pancake sliding onto his plate, the sparkling sugar crystals scattered liberally across the mottled surface dissolving in the lemon juice squeezed across it.

His mouth waters at the memory. Real pancakes, those. None of these thick, American things, like overblown drop scones weighing down the plate and covered with who knows what sort of crap. No sticky, oversweet syrups, no added ingredients – and no bloody “mix” out of a packet either.

He looks down at his plate. Three of the buggers, a deep pink colour, flabby and surrounded with bits of bacon and pools of syrup. He glances across at Buffy and catches a wry little grin. She’ll never admit it’s a smirk, but from his perspective it’s not entirely unsmirkish either.

Then he looks up at the anxious, hot face staring down at him. Nope. Just can’t do it.

“Thanks, Bit. However did you know to make me these? How in hell did you find out my birthday for that matter? Even I had almost forgotten it.”  
He forks a mouthful in, forces it down. Buffy’s smile of approval – that’s all the sauce and all the flavouring he needs. And Dawn’s happy face is just the bonus.


End file.
